


Red, Gold, Red

by ghostchibi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, Hawke uses he/him pronouns, M/M, Multi, Non-canon Hawke, Original Character(s), Other, Past Anders/Hawke, Threesome - F/M/Other, general content warning for vague self-depreciative ableism from Hawke about his mental health, shapeshifter!Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostchibi/pseuds/ghostchibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Cullen have a history, Cassandra has a lot of respect for them both, and Hawke has a heart too big for his own good.</p><p>----</p><p>Various scenes from Hawke's first conversation with Cullen after arriving at Skyhold, to returning to Skyhold after a nightmarish assault on Adamant Fortress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No more blue mixed in the gold

**Author's Note:**

> Jonathan Hawke is a non-canon custom Hawke who has a semi-"sixth sense" that usually manifests in the form of visual or auditory "hallucinations" of sorts. Any mentions of color in his vision or otherwise unnatural elements (like floating lines or colored outlines on people) are all an effect of this. Jonathan is also a shapeshifter mage who can take on the form of a red-tailed hawk and a roc (a giant hawk).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan speaks to Cullen again for the first time since Kirkwall.

"You’ve stopped taking lyrium."

That’s probably not the best thing for Jonathan to say first thing after having gone missing for several years, but it’s the first thing he notices about Cullen. Templars all have a glow about them, the lyrium in their veins contrasting sharply against the lack of actual magic, pale blue and a soft, almost hum of background noise to match.

It’s distracting, for the most part. But the lack of it is jarring, because Cullen no longer has that background radiance to him. No aura or hum of lyrium, something Jonathan has attached to his understanding of Cullen from the moment they’d first met.

"I- I’m not going to ask how you know that."

"I saw and heard it," Jonathan tries to explain, then hastily rewords. "I mean to say, I noticed by looking at you and listening to you. I didn’t see you do anything, or hear from anyone else."

"Is this a mage thing, to notice?"

"No, it’s a ‘Jonathan Hawke is a strange man who might be a touch mad’ thing."

Cullen frowns. That facial expression hasn’t changed in the last five years, at least.

"Templars have this… background of lyrium. I can see the same glow and I can hear the same song as I do with lyrium, it’s just muted somewhat."

"That was not what I was frowning about."

"Is it really surprising to hear me call myself a madman?"

"No, but I would prefer you not."

Silence settles over both of them again. It’s uncomfortable, because it truly is silent, because there is no song humming in Jonathan’s ears when everything he knows tells him that Cullen walks with lyrium in his shadow.

But it’s not that way anymore. And for once, Jonathan notices more of the smaller things that make Cullen himself. The tinges of brown that edge at Jonathan’s vision when Cullen is in view. The gold and red that faintly outline Cullen’s form and shadow against the wall. No more lines of blue run across his arms and shoulders, but rather Jonathan sees invisible claws at his fingertips as his hands clasp together. With no haze of blue to obscure it, everything is much clearer now.

 _Did you miss me?_  he wants to ask. But what is there about Jonathan to miss? Most of his conversations with Cullen had been about either keeping his mage friends from causing issues or talking about yet another blood mage that Meredith wanted help chasing down. Pleasant conversations had simply not been a thing between them.

"I missed you," Cullen says anyway. "Do not look at me like that; the question is written all over your face, Hawke."

 _Most_  of their conversations had been business. Not all of them, though.

"Are you calling me an open book?"

"No. Your eyes are sad, though. I know that look, Jon."

Cullen leans forward to kiss him on the cheek, and Jonathan’s heart does a cartwheel in his chest.


	2. The Right Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan meets Cassandra.

His heart does about ten more cartwheels when he meets Cassandra.

Which, if the look on Varric’s face is any indication, seems to be the same state Cassandra is going through as well. Her face snaps from irritated (at Varric, of course she’s irritated with him, what did Varric say this time?) and possibly slightly sleep-deprived to sudden awe.

There’s a joke to be made here, he thinks, considering Cassandra’s immense respect for him and his significantly shorter stature than her.

"So, Seeker, here he is. The Champion of Kirkwall," Varric says with that almost-laugh in his voice. He’s getting too much amusement out of this, watching Cassandra go from a hardened Seeker to a huge fan.

"It’s hard to be a Champion of a city that I don’t even live in anymore," Jonathan adds. He hates being called the Champion nowadays. "Just Hawke is fine."

"I see. I apologize for any misunderstanding, Hawke, but I have not meant any ill-will toward you."

Varric makes a face that actively challenges that statement. Jonathan almost kicks him in the shins.

"Right. I suppose its only natural to want to know what happened after an entire city went up in flames," he sighs.

Thankfully Cassandra manages to convince Varric to leave them on their own (Jonathan has to intervene when the dwarf insinuates something about Jonathan’s safety and Cassandra looks downright murderous at the suggestion). The relatively private forge room glows orange from the fire, and Jonathan traces patterns of smoke and embers through the air. The lines gravitate toward Cassandra, where she stands with an aura of red around her. Not red for danger. Red for simply who she is. Red like blood, like roses, like passion.

Red like a romantic.

Jonathan blinks, and pink tints the edges of his vision momentarily when Cassandra’s expression softens.

"Varric has told me everything he knows, or so he says. I know that he has chosen to… omit a few details."

"He’s a storyteller, Seeker Pentaghast, not a historian. You embellish and omit the right parts to make the best story. Which is why I suppose there was a story going around Kirkwall for a time that I brought down an entire wall to corner a group of slavers."

She laughs at that, and an incredulous look passes over her face.

"I take it that was not the entire truth?"

"Well. A wall did get smashed down, and a group of slavers did get cornered, but it was a well-aimed Maker’s Fist spell that took it down, not my bare hands. Also, there was a grenade involved."

Cassandra had probably meant to ask him about what happened in Kirkwall, but for the next hour or so their conversation instead turns to recollections of their companions. Jonathan talks about small things like trampling all over the Wounded Coast for mercenaries, Tal-Vashoth, and blood mages, or weekly games of Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man, or the year he spent working for smugglers trying to earn his way into the city. Cassandra in turn relates recent events to him, the Orlesian civil war and the upcoming ball at the Winter Palace, Venatori activity in the west and Samson’s rise with the Red Templars.

"Suddenly I’m glad I had Aveline get Carver somewhere safe," he mutters. "Samson. I helped him get back into the Order. He wanted to go back to being a Templar. I can’t believe- Maker’s breath."

Everything he stumbles into becomes some sort of giant problem, it seems. Corypheus, and Samson, and the Circles collapsing-

He’s brought out of his self-hating haze by a gentle hand shaking his shoulder.

"Hawke. Hawke, you-"

Cassandra looks worried.

"It’s nothing, he says, lying through his teeth, but he lets her guide him toward the door into the courtyard anyway. Something about more sunlight and fresh air.

He wonders if she can see the flashes of red in his eyes, the way he sees it in his vision.


	3. Lyrium withdrawal, and a fleeing hawk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan confronts (?) Cullen.

"You didn’t tell me you had a thing going on with the Seeker."

It’s not an accusation. It’s a simple stating of fact. Jonathan has his arms crossed though, and it’s not hard to see him and think that yes, he is actually angry.

"I do not-"

"I’m not mad. I’m just… you never told me. I would have minded my space. Or your space, more accurately."

"This is not- there is nothing-"

"Don’t lie to me."

That actually sounds closer to anger.

"The two of us are friends, Hawke. There isn’t anything between us that is, well…"

"Official? Set in stone?"

"I suppose you could say th-"

Cullen braces himself against his desk suddenly, inhaling sharply. Lyrium withdrawal is terrible, he thinks blearily, and his knees almost give out when an arm wraps around his waist to keep him from falling.

"If this kills you, I’m going to be so Maker-damned angry," Jonathan curses, hauling Cullen back onto his feet. "Sit down before you bash your head against the floor."

"I am fine. This will pass-"

"Cullen,  _please_.”

When Jonathan Hawke pleads with his friends, very few are able to say no. Cullen certainly isn’t one of the few who can ignore him, and so he settles heavily into his chair. Fingers comb through blond hair soothingly, and Cullen blinks to clear his vision.

"It’s getting worse," Jonathan says.

"…yes."

"And you never thought to come talk to someone who has mental side effects from raw lyrium exposure?"

"I did not-"

"Think about it?"

"Want to bother you."

The look Jonathan gives Cullen would make lesser men wilt.

"Come bother me, next time. I promise that your company while unwell is better than a lack of it entirely."

The gentle touch of fingertips against his scalp is surprisingly soothing; the headache that was pounding against his temples moments ago has dulled down into a muted ache. Cullen closes his eyes and lets himself relax, just for a moment. Hawke would be cross if he didn’t.

"Stress makes it worse for me, sometimes," Jonathan says after a long silence. "It might be the same for you."

"The Inquisition needs me, Hawke. I cannot give less to it-"

"Than you gave the Chantry. I know. Cassandra sounded like she wanted to punch you when she told me."

"She can punch a tree when the Inquisitor takes her to the Hinterlands, if she is so wishes to punch something."

"What?"

The joke flies over Jonathan’s head entirely, and he gives Cullen a strange look. Apparently the former Champion hasn’t heard that story about Cassandra just yet.

"Oh, she does this… thing, when she sneezes-"

The door swings open unexpectedly. Jonathan recoils as if he’s been shocked, and ends up on the other side of Cullen’s desk. It’s nowhere near discreet, especially when several sheets and a quill are blown off of the desk in his haste to move away.

Cassandra looks between Jonathan (who looks like he’s just been slapped) and Cullen (who looks both relieved and incredibly confused).

"Am I…"

"No it’s okay I was just leaving-"

Even more papers go flying as Jonathan makes a mad dash for the door on the opposite side of the room, leaving behind a thoroughly confused Seeker and Commander.


	4. Talk talk talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gossip in the tavern, and a drunk Jonathan.

Jonathan sits down at a table in the Herald’s Rest, and immediately regrets sitting so close to Cullen’s soldiers.

"So, apparently the Commander and Seeker Pentaghast are together?"

"Are they, now?"

"Do you reckon they’re tryin’ t’ keep it a secret?"

"If they are, they are doing a terrible job of it."

It would probably be rude to groan loudly to get them to stop talking about it, and attract unwanted attention to himself. So Jonathan sits there and broods over a mug of foul ale instead, trying to block out the gossiping.

He’s perfectly content to sit quietly and be thoroughly upset with himself and his current emotional state. Maker-damned fool who falls in love with people too often, a heart too big for his fool brain, crazy mage with too much love-

"I don’t know… have you seen the way the Seeker looks at Hawke, though?"

Jonathan’s attention immediately jolts back to the gossiping.

"She’s got a lot of respect for him. Tha’s not the same as likin’ someone, innit?"

"Oh please, anyone with eyes could see it. Respect? Sure, she respects him, among _other_  things.”

"Really, the Seeker? Have you all never seen the Commander talking to the Champion? He looks like a mabari puppy tripping over its own feet!"

The temptation to groan obnoxiously and put an end to their gossip grows stronger, and Jonathan simply gives up. He gets up and kicks the chair away, leaving the rest of his alcohol, and decides that he needs to go outside. He gets about three steps away from the door when he walks straight into someone.

"Sorry, sorry-"

"Hawke?"

Maker-fucking-dammit.

At least Cullen’s coat kept him from walking into hard metal, he thinks to himself, and Jonathan rubs his face. There’s a flash of red in the corner of his eyesight, then a slow bleeding of gold across his vision.

Cullen and Cassandra, then. How wonderful.

Jonathan groans as his head swims. How much had he drank? He can't remember. Which is a good sign that the answer to that question is probably “far too much.”

"Hawke, are you-"

"Drunk? Yes. Probably. Very drunk. My sorrows don’t drown very well. They’re good swimmers."

Cullen snorts at the joke, and coughs when Cassandra elbows him in the side.

"Hey Cullen? Did you know that… that your soldiers are talking about you? And Cassandra. A few of them think… you two are together. And me too. I mean. Not together. Me and you. Or me and Cassandra. It’s really odd. I think they’re taking bets."

Jonathan ducks his head as he leans heavily against Cullen, and misses the look that passes between the Commander and the Seeker.

"Yes… that is odd."


	5. Bloody murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan is attacked by an assassin, and contemplates how much fun the situation isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for semi-gory depiction of blood.

Being stabbed is not a fun experience.

The broken nose, Jonathan can live with. Somewhat. A pommel to the face is painful but perfectly fixable with a bit of healing, but a stab wound to the chest? Jonathan doesn’t have the expertise for that, especially when he’s the one with the wound that needs healing.

Jonathan grabs hold of his attacker and drags the man down with him by the collar, snarling despite the pain and shoves a hand enveloped in flames in his face. There’s screaming and shouting and thrashing and Varric’s voice yelling for him and blood in his mouth, blood filling his lungs and spreading across his tunic and sticking to his skin and leaking from the corner of his mouth.

It hurts to cough. His body keeps trying to clear his throat, push out the fluid that chokes him from the inside, and all he accomplishes is a mouthful of blood that he spits onto the flagstones.

Disgusting.

He tries to curse out the assassin, but he can’t form proper words. A gurgle and an angry growl leave his throat as everything gets dark. Collapsing against the ground hurts. He’s probably going to have bruises from that tomorrow.

"Hawke!"

Blacking out isn’t a fun experience, either.


	6. Wake up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan wakes up with company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has my favorite sentence I have ever typed in it. That is all.

Morning daylight filters in through the holes in Cullen’s roof in much the same way that flies filter through holes in a wall; unrequested, unwanted, and met with great irritation.

Jonathan covers his face with a pillow to block out the light, and winces at the pain that shoots through his chest.

"Augh…"

There’s a weight on his chest as well, and he tilts his head down to see. He’s missing his shirt, his chest is bandaged up, and… is that someone’s hand?

Yes, it is someone’s hand. And it’s still attached to someone. Jonathan turns his head and sees Cassandra, face still serious even while lying next to him fast asleep. Her hand is resting… no, placed on his chest. She didn’t just happen to put her hand there.

There’s a hand curled against his shoulder as well, with two fingers splayed against his neck. Cullen is sitting with his back against the headboard, knees pulled up. His hand must have slipped as he dozed off.

A hand on his chest and fingers against the side of his neck…

It dawns on Jonathan that they were checking his breathing and pulse while he was unconscious.

He’s not sure how to react to that. A healer could have just as easily watched him. And he probably would have had a healer watching over him, except these two had more than likely volunteered to watch him instead.

Why?

Cassandra stirs next to him slowly, and she blinks trying to clear the sleep from her eyes. Jonathan stares back at her, a questioning look on his face. Not accusing or uncomfortable, just… questioning.

The Seeker shoots up, and hastily removes her hand.

"Hawke, you-"

"I’m okay."

She doesn’t look like she believes him entirely. Jonathan tries to push himself up onto his elbows, and grits his teeth and winces immediately. Cassandra’s hand is on his shoulder, gently easing him back down.

"You were stabbed in the chest, and kept coughing up blood. The healers did as much as they could, but you will still be in pain, " she explains.

"Yeah… discovered that bit for myself."

All of the movement seems to have woken up Cullen as well. He makes a strange noise somewhere between a snort and an inhale, eyes snapping open.

"Hawke-"

“‘Morning, Cullen. Don’t worry, I’m still alive.”

Cullen inhales and closes his eyes, rubbing his face. He looks relieved, but also unhappy. The slow exhale that follows seems to draw out some of the tension in his shoulders.

"That is not- Please do not joke about that."

Jonathan would shrug if he could. Instead he sighs, leaning his head against Cullen’s knuckles lying next his cheek. There’s a stiffness that runs through them for a moment, fingers curling in just a little bit. But then they relax again, and when Jonathan’s eyes flick up to Cullen’s face he sees a smile.

Cassandra shifts awkwardly next to him. He turns his head toward her next, and his hand covers hers still laid on his shoulder. She tenses for a moment too, just like Cullen, and Jonathan curls his fingers around her hand a little bit tighter.

"So… how long are we going to sidestep around each other?" he asks.

The glinting of sunlight off of the stone walls of the room immediately becomes very interesting to all three of them.


	7. Serious talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three finally sit down to talk it out.

"…so."

"So."

"Are we going to speak on this?"

Jonathan almost regrets saying anything at all. The three of them are sitting on the bed now, trying to have a proper conversation. He’s sitting up against the headboard, with a clean tunic and new bandages wrapped around his chest, and he’s busy pulling at the drawstrings on his top instead of talking.

He wonders if it would be too much work to shapeshift and fly off.

Cassandra crosses her arms, before sighing heavily.

"Do you both intend to court me?" she asks. The unsure look on her face from earlier is gone, replaced with something much more determined.

"That… sounds rather formal."

She turns to Cullen, frowning.

"That is what I desire. But that is not what the two of you see. I am a warrior. I am brash and bold and difficult. But that is only on the outside. I still desire things I cannot have… flowers, and candlelight, and poetry-"

A harsh sigh, and a frustrated grumble.

"Is that what you want?" Jonathan finally speaks up. "Because if so, that’s what we’ll do."

"This is… rather new to me, but yes. We will try our best," Cullen adds. 

They look at her, so hopeful. Hopeful that she will say yes, hopeful that she will agree.

"And… this is okay for you as well?"

"Yes."

Jonathan doesn’t voice his response, but he smiles and nods. He doesn’t trust himself to be able to say anything coherently at the moment, out of fear that he’ll say the wrong thing. Cassandra looks concerned for a moment, but he extends a hand to her.

Even her hands are bigger than his, he realizes, as her fingers fit in between his. Cullen takes his other hand and kisses his knuckles, eyes on Jonathan’s face the whole time.

"And- and for us," he stammers out, and Maker’s breath, Jonathan loves the way the man blushes. "That is, the three of us, but also between you and I…"

"I missed you."

He doesn’t mean to say that out loud. It comes out anyway, because he’s not sure how else to say it or show it. And it’s true; he’s missed Cullen immensely.

"We’re okay," Jonathan says. "We’re okay now."

Relief passes across Cullen’s face, and he squeezes the younger man’s hand with a smile.


	8. A cold night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan hates the cold.

Magister Maevaris had once called Dorian a “hothouse orchid” who was more than likely freezing in the weather of the Frostbacks. Cassandra had chuckled when she saw the letter, and couldn’t help but agree that the altus was indeed comparable to such.

If Dorian is a hothouse orchid, Jonathan is a Seheron hibiscus.

Despite being Fereldan-born and raised (as far as Cassandra knows, at least), Jonathan hates the cold. His armor seems to have gained more fur pieces to it from what she remembers when he first arrived, and even inside Skyhold he wears a rather heavy coat.

"I thought hawks liked cold weather?" she asks Jonathan.

"This one despises it," he grumbles, and scoots closer to Cassandra to absorb more of her body heat. Already he’s stolen most of the covers on the bed, pulling them around himself in a cocoon. Cullen stirs and attempts to reclaim some of them, to no avail.

"Winter is awful, snow is white nugshit, and I need more feathers to keep me warm."

"Mmhmm."

Cassandra runs a hand through Jonathan’s hair as he tucks his head under her chin. It’s already starting to go a bit gray, flecks of silver mixed in with the mess of jet black hair. He’s younger than her, younger than Cullen, and yet he’s the one to go gray first.

Jonathan mumbles something under his breath, and suddenly jolts up.

"CULLEN!" he hisses, glaring accusingly at the half-asleep man lying opposite of Cassandra. "Your feet are like ice!"

"Wh- you’ve stolen all of the sheets…"

"Because I’m cold! You’re not helping!"

Cullen groans and instead shifts closer, throwing one arm around Jonathan’s waist and buring his face into the pillow.

"Go t’sleep," he murmurs, and ignores Jonathan’s protests at his cold hands as well.


	9. Dear Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan writes a letter to a close friend.

"No, I'm not telling you where he's hiding," Jonathan says without looking up as he hears footsteps coming from the stairs.

"I wasn't going to ask," comes Cassandra's voice.

Jonathan puts the quill down, a look of incredulity passing over his face followed by a deep from.

"Somehow I don't believe you," he mutters, and quickly goes back to writing. He hasn't gotten very far, and there's much more he wants to say beyond _Dear Anders, I miss you_. Cassandra stops at the landing of the steps.

"Perhaps finding the apostate Anders is a priority for the Chantry. It is not, however, a priority for the Inquisition. I would not abuse your trust."

"And once you're done serving the Inquisition, and you go back to the Chantry?"

" _Jonathan_."

She's standing with her arms crossed now. Maybe his lack of belief stings, but Jonathan has never trusted anyone about Anders. The quill is set down yet again, and he pushes down the urge to throw the inkpot at the wall. Instead, he rubs his face, a deep sigh leaving his lips.

"Cassandra, I love you, but I need you to understand that I can't trust anyone,  _anyone_ , with this. I promised him that nobody else would know. I've already broken half of that promise just letting you know he's even alive."

Jonathan doesn't hold secrets inside of him very well. He can keep a secret forever if he needs to, but they almost feel like poison in his heart. The things about himself he doesn't say, because it would only hurt him to let others know. The things that he knows that he can't say, because it would only hurt others to say it out loud. Anders is another one of those secrets. His best friend, his closest friend, a man he once loved above all else in the world. He hasn't stopped loving Anders, not really, because he still cares just as strongly as he did ten years ago. It's simply different now, someone he loves dearly as a friend rather than as a lover.

He _does_ want to tell Cassandra everything. He wishes he could. He wishes that Anders had come with him to Skyhold. Anders wouldn't be alone here, but Jonathan still fears the Chantry's influence seeped in the Inquisition. And he fears that the people he trusts will decide that they need to do what they have been told for so many years.

The problems of having two lovers who were rather strongly connected to the Chantry, he supposes.

Thankfully, Cassandra doesn't push any further. She just nods, maybe a bit stiffly, but lets the topic drop regardless. The sound of a quill scribbling across paper resumes, and for a while it's the only noise in the room.

"What was he like?"

The scribbling stops.

"I have only heard stories from Varric. But you knew him better. What... what is he like? Beyond Anders the renegade apostate?"

There's a long pause before Jonathan speaks.

"Passionate. Passionate for sure. He wants happiness for mages. No more children torn from their mothers. No more mages cowering in fear of templars. To live, without a shadow cast over their heads."

He scoots his chair back and rests his chin on his palm, elbow against the desk. The fluttering of bird wings outside the window catches his attention, reminds him of the pauldrons Anders wore, magical black feathers carefully woven together.

"I don't know if it would have been possible for him to be happy, though. Justice... Justice was relentless. Justice didn't care about small victories, just about getting to the big victory. Sometimes you have to celebrate the small victories along the way, and Anders didn't get a chance to do that. He kept pushing forward. I don't know if he ever really saw how much progress he was making."

"You loved him?"

"I still do. Just... differently. As friends. As my best friend."

"Why did you love him, before? As not just a friend?"

That makes Jonathan laugh. He finally looks over to Cassandra, amusement in his eyes at the question. How should he answer?

"I _could_ be crude and say he was incredible in bed-"

" _Hawke_."

"I know, I know. I don't care enough about that for that to be the reason," he chuckles. "It's no lie though, he was rather... skilled. But as to why I fell in love with him? I suppose it was seeing someone with so much driving force behind everything he did. A level of determination I'd never seen before in my life. And the funny little things he'd say. I remember, after the Deep Roads expedition, how he'd talk with Varric over what was the best way to get revenge on Bartrand for screwing us over."

"Was that all then, determination and a witty tongue?"

"Nah."

He sets the quill down and stands up. Perhaps he could finish the letter later, when he isn't suffering from a lack of sleep and an incredibly bad inability to focus, and is less likely to accidentally write a long line of formless scribbles in the middle of writing a word. Cassandra meets him halfway when he steps towards her, and his hand slips easily into hers.

"He believed in me," Jonathan continues. "I'd long since convinced myself I could never do anything right. But no matter how much I said I couldn't do it, he still thought I could. He believed that I could. There was no convincing him otherwise."

The corner of his lips quirks up into a lopsided smile, head tilting to the side just a little. He has to look up to look Cassandra in the eye, and it's a source of never ending amusement for him.

"Coincidentally, that's the same reason I fell in love with you, too."

"That cannot be the only reason why you fall in love with someone."

"True. Protecting my life on a semi-regular basis also helps."

The smile that brings to Cassandra's face is gentle. She doesn't smile much, not that there's much to be smiling at given the current state of the world, and Jonathan doesn't do it very often either. So when she tilts her head down to press her forehead against his, Jonathan takes in every last detail of the moment.

And then the door swings open.

Thankfully, the two of them are on the second floor, right above the entrance and out of sight of whoever has just walked in. Cassandra pulls back (but not away, Jonathan notices) and cranes her neck to see who it is.

"There ya two lovebirds are!"

Sera, in her never ending mirth at the situation, comes bounding up the steps. The two "lovebirds" scowl at her, and she just grins back.

"Aw c'mon, don't look at me like that. Leliana wants to see you both. Something about the big dumb ball in Orlais," she says, and Jonathan turns to Cassandra in confusion.

"What do I have to do with the Empress's ball?"

"I do not know. Leliana has told me nothing yet."

"Well then why don't you two go ask her, huh? If you don't go, she'll think I just ran off, so you better go, yeah?"

"The peace and quiet was nice while it lasted," Jonathan groans. "Thanks for the message, Sera."

"Wouldn't have been quiet for long though, would it? Not with you lot, kissy little lovebirds," she teases, and runs down the stairs cackling madly when Jonathan whips around to throw ice in her direction.

 

 


	10. Preparations and plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan gets roped into going to the Winter Palace, and a few plans are necessary to make that happen.

The idea of going to the Winter Palace with the rest of the Inquisition is... strange. That's all Jonathan can really say about the matter. He's not needed there, but for some reason the Inquisitor likes the idea of having him come along. He's not opposed to the idea, not really, but he truly has no idea how he could help.

It's not his usual self-loathing talking when he says that, either.

"More eyes and ears," Cassandra explains, although it's not much of an explanation when someone else from the Inquisition could go in his place. "Navigating the Winter Palace will require calculation and sharp wit. You have both."

Jonathan has a sneaking suspicion that it has more to do with the fact that neither Cullen nor Cassandra would be able to watch over his safety with them both at the Winter Palace. The solution would be to simply bring him along with them, of course, and it's probably the only reason why he's been roped into this with the others. Leliana quickly jumps onto the fact that Jonathan's identity is a grave danger to him; being recognized would be disastrous for him and the Inquisition. At the suggestion of a mask (and to simply stay quiet the whole time), the spymaster thinks for a moment before her face lights up.

"Yes... I know the perfect person for the job," she says, voice completely serious despite the smile on her face.

"I don't want something that'll attract attention, isn't that the opposite of what we're trying to do?" he asks, wondering exactly what kind of extravagant thing she's got in mind for him. "I mean, pretty is nice, but pretty would mean attention. Which is the opposite of what we're trying to accomplish here."

"Do not worry, Serah Hawke. It would attract far more attention to be wearing something unextravagant, at least at an Orlesian ball."

The wink that follows doesn't really help Jonathan feel much better. But he trusts the actual former Orlesian bard in the room to know more about Orlesian balls than he does, and so he shrugs.

Their conversation wraps up fairly quickly after that, and finishes with Cullen and Leliana bickering about the Orlesian Game.  Cassandra steers Cullen out of the war room in a way that suggests she's had to do the same thing more than once before, Jonathan trailing behind them.

"Is... Is Leliana serious about the mask idea? I could just... I don't know, cut my hair differently, maybe?"

"Well, it wouldn't be out of place to be wearing a mask. It might be considered strange not to have a mask, even," Cullen explains.

"Leliana knows best how to navigate the Orlesian court. Her suggestions are invaluable," Cassandra adds. "I would follow her words."

"A mask it is, then. Tell me again why I'm agreeing to this?"

Both of them pause.

"We were... hoping. Your presence would mean another attentive person. It couldn't hurt."

"You mean I won't be stuck in Skyhold worrying my ass off about whether or not you two are okay."

"...perhaps that was also taken into consideration."

The two of them look a bit sheepishly. So they _had_ been thinking about that.

"I appreciate the thought."

They look a bit shocked when Jonathan replies with a smile.

"I probably wouldn't last two hours without you two, anyway," he jokes, and nudges Cullen with his shoulder. The taller man wraps one arm around Jonathan's shoulders, and Jonathan doesn't have to do anything other than reach toward Cassandra to feel her palm against his.

"You would be okay for a few days," Cullen chastises. "You've spent time on your own before. It's not as if you'll die."

"Hmm, that's debatable."

" ** _Jonathan_**."

 "I don't like being alone, though. Both of you know that. I'd probably melt if I had to be alone for more than a week."

"You would not melt," Cassandra chuckles, although she squeezes his hand a bit tighter just for a moment.

"You never know," he replies. "It's happened before."

Not literally, of course. But there are things he hasn't told them yet, things he's not really sure he can. So he masks it with a joke, hoping that they'll let it slide for now.

"So, about the mask... what does Leliana have in mind for that?"

"Something perfectly necessary and not at all over-the-top, I'm sure," Cullen grumbles. "And clothing! She still goes on and on about clothing. Please, for Andraste's sake, do not let her convince you that you need to wear something that would make you eye-catching..."

"Anything else I should be worried about when it comes time to be shoved into whatever fancy dress for the ball?"

"Do not insult Orlesians in front of Leliana, like our dear Commander is rather fond of doing."

"Insult! It's hardly an insult if I dislike the... frivolities of an entire country-"

"Frivolities!" comes a voice full of contempt. The three jump in alarm as Leliana rounds the corner to turn on Cullen, the spymaster having walked out of the war room just in time to hear Cullen's words. "Commander, the Game is hardly _frivolities_ -"

"An entire country's government, devoted to sneaking around each other and putting knives in the backs of everyone else-"

Cassandra and Jonathan wisely decide to duck out of the conversation before the two advisors start a fight.

 


	11. Formal (?) wear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan sees his... interesting clothes for the Winter Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late update, but at the beginning of the month a great source of inspiration to me, an animator by the name of Monty Oum, unexpectedly passed away. I was hit incredibly hard by this, and for a while I lost all motivation to write or draw anything at all. I've tried not to push myself too hard in recovering from my slump, which is also another reason why this update took so long (and why it's so short).
> 
> The next few updates might take a bit of time as well. Thanks for being patient.

When Leliana had expressed an unusual amount of excitement over the mention of a mask for Jonathan, he'd though that was all that he should worry about.

Unfortunately, he's wrong.

"I'm... Maker's breath, how much did this cost?"

"How much coin this required should not be your greatest concern right now," Vivienne says, lifting the sleeve of the garment presented in front of him. "Although it would be a mistake to believe that this is anything less than the finest the Inquisition can afford."

"Good to know this is where all of my hard-earned sovereigns go," the Inquisitor says, crossing her arms. But despite her words she's smiling, clearly amused by this turn of events.

"You are not the only source of income for the Inquisition, Your Worship," Josephine chides. "This is thanks to the efforts of Leliana and Madame Vivienne."

"When you said I needed to get measurements, I'd never thought it would..."

Jonathan gestures at the outfit, tries to find the right words, and fails.

"Not what you had expected, Serah Hawke?"

"No. Not at all."

"I do suppose a dress is rather... unconventional."

The craftsmanship on it is incredible. The dress is white with red detailing, with sleeves made of layered lace and red buttons that almost look as if they've been carved out of bloodstone. Satin ribbon adorns the top of the sleeves and crimson trim along the edges of the blouse stand in stark contrast to the delicate, snow white material. The skirt fans out like a teacup (a rather Orlesian style, he notes) and the top layer of the skirt is embroidered with a filigree design at the edges. There's even a matching hairpin, with braided red ribbon hanging down.

"At least this way, nobody will ever think you're the Champion, right?" the Inquisitor asks almost nervously. "I mean, this and the mask, and you're practically just another guest at the palace."

Everyone watches Jonathan. They're probably expecting a reluctant agreement just to please them.

It's a really, _really_ nice dress.

"I need to try that on _right now_."

* * *

 

It comes as no surprise that putting the dress on becomes a struggle. Jonathan has never worn a dress before, and certainly not something as frilly and delicate as this. The closest he's ever gotten to wearing anything like this would have been his visit to Chateau Haine.

"Please tell me you have shoes that I can actually walk in for this?" he asks Leliana, who chuckles and seemingly out of nowhere pulls out a pair of red boots.

"Decorated so that if anyone sees your feet, they will not look out of place. You should have no trouble walking or running, should the need arise," she explains.

"You make me think that I'm going to need to hide a knife under the skirt."

"The only knife you'll need is your tongue. But," Leliana replies, patting Jonathan on the shoulder, "you are to be silent the whole night unless the need for that also arises. In which case I would suggest running before talking."

"I think I'll just stay by Cassandra, then."

It's another struggle getting out of the dress, and the fact that it takes the joint effort of Leliana and Josephine with them smacking away his hands when he tries to do it himself doesn't help. Nevertheless Jonathan eventually gets back into his usual armor and fur and feathers.

"None of you can tell anyone else that I'm wearing this."

"There's no need to be embarrassed, my dear."

"Who said anything about being embarrassed? It's a nice dress, and I have people I'd like to impress."

Josephine and Leliana both have the decency to stifle their giggles. The Inquisitor suddenly finds the ceiling rather interesting, and Vivienne just gives him a knowing look.

"I mean it," he repeats. "All of you have to swear."

They all agree to stay silent (the Inquisitor mumbles something else about "not that anyone would believe me"), and with that Jonathan is shooed away as the Inquisitor herself needs to try on her outfit as well. He makes out a "no men allowed!" from the Inquisitor before the doors are shut behind him, and he rolls his eyes.

He has the rest of the day to himself, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made an avatar at tektek.org to use as a reference for myself just so I would keep a consistent description of Jonathan's dress; if you're interested in seeing it, it's [here](http://tektek.org/av/1776641).


	12. Language unsuitable for a six-year-old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra is certain that six-year-olds should not be talking like that.

Cassandra's daily training rituals have not changed at all since their arrival at Skyhold. While she doesn't really expect anyone to pay attention to it, she had failed to take into account the horde of bored children being taken care of by the Chantry sisters. Apparently, her whacking at a straw dummy is better entertainment than listening to lectures about the Chant of Light.

Which is why several children are climbing all over the fence set up to separate the training area, trying to find a good seat to watch the Seeker smack the stuffing out of a vaguely human-shaped mass. None of them approach her, although they all watch with the same intense attention. Her sword goes up, and their heads follow the movement, tracking the blade as it lands in the head area of the dummy. Usually there isn't much noise from them, all of them too busy watching to talk or cause trouble.

"MIERDA!"

Today is different, apparently.

Cassandra's head whips around when she hears a rather young voice screaming a rather... mature word. By the fence, one of the children is beating her fists angrily against another child's chest, her hair in a vice grip in the boy's hand. She yells something in Antivan, and when the boy yanks harder, she rears her head back and soundly bashes her forehead against his.

"Va te faire foutre!" she yells this time, and Cassandra _definitely_ recognizes what that means. Spending time in Orlais in her younger years meant that she had picked up the language and knew a fair amount of Orlesian, including the less polite words and phrases. **[  
](http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/aller#French)**

"Stop that!" she yells, turning and walking toward the gaggle of children which threatens to turn very quickly into an all-out brawl. They see her approaching, and with sudden wide eyes they scatter, some of them tripping over their own feet to get away.

She hadn't meant to scare them off. But the children are gone now, all screaming and running back to the Chantry (no doubt to cry about the scary Seeker, she thinks to herself), and Cassandra is about to return to training when she feels something tug at her shirt.

"He pulled on my hair first."

The little Antivan girl, the one who had screamed profanities very much inappropriate for her age, stands by Cassandra, apparently the only one not to have been scared off.

"I see," is all Cassandra can think to reply with.

"No, it means I didn't do anything bad!" the girl insists. "The Chantry sisters are gonna say I shouldn't hit him with my head! But he pulled my hair first, so I yelled at him and he pulled again so I hit him with my head! You have to tell the sisters that I didn't do anything bad!"

"If they ask me, I will tell them so."

"Noooo, you have to _tell_ them! They won't ask you b'cuz they don't want to bother you. They always say 'don't bother the Seeker, she's working very hard.'"

"Is that so?"

All thought of continuing her training is gone now, and Cassandra instead decides to sit on the grass next to the girl. She's young, probably no older than six years old, with her long black hair tied into a ponytail and draped over her shoulder. Perhaps the daughter of a Haven local, or a child rescued by Inquisition soldiers.

"Why did you say all of those... bad words, then?" Cassandra asks. "Who taught you that?"

"Mami and Papi met lots of people who talked like that. Sometimes they taught me how to say bad words. It's funny!"

"It is inappropriate for someone your age to be saying those words," the Seeker scolds.

"But it's funny when the adults hear!" the girl giggles. "Their eyes go wide, and then sometimes their faces get red!"

There's no convincing her from yelling profanities, apparently. Cassandra shakes her head.

"What is your name? And who is taking care of you?"

"Clarissa. I'm six years old. The Chantry sisters take care of me b'cuz I'm an or... orphan. I like Mami and Papi better though. The sisters are mean."

Most six year olds generally do not talk about being an orphan in such a flippant manner, although Cassandra already suspects that this girl is rather different given her gleeful swearing.

"I see."

"Can I watch you hit the dummy with your sword? It's really fun to watch!"

And just like that, Clarissa's train of thought has already switched to something else. Cassandra smiles as she stands, wondering when she would have to deal with a flustered Chantry sister coming to usher away the little girl. For now though, it seems she has an audience to entertain.

"Of course."

Eventually Clarissa is steered back toward the Chantry garden, happily waving goodbye to Cassandra as a harried sister scolds her for her various wrongdoings. And every day after that whenever Cassandra appears in the training grounds with sword in hand, the little Antivan girl is there too, hanging off of the fence and eager to see another training dummy demolished. She claps whenever Cassandra lands a good blow, and cheers whenever a dummy loses any of its parts. At one point, she asks Cassandra if she can keep the head of a dummy severed by her sword.

Cassandra almost says yes.

Clarissa is occasionally joined by the other children, who seem to have learned their lesson and keep their hands to themselves while they watch. But even though the other children wander off, or don't always show up, Clarissa is a constant presence. The little Antivan girl with a sailor's mouth sits on the fence beams, kicking her feet and full of glee at every swipe and sword stroke.


End file.
